


our own constellations

by maebyfunke (drytherivers)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Everyone Is Gay, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 15:19:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3139145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drytherivers/pseuds/maebyfunke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>wendy is a barista whose life lacks direction. mabel is a photography student with pretty eyes and a boundless love for life and all things in it. </p>
<p>(coffee shop au, because the gf fandom doesn't have any yet)</p>
            </blockquote>





	our own constellations

**Author's Note:**

> plot summary: absolute complete meaningless rom-com fluff. 
> 
> what to expect: wendy/dipper friendship, terrible 'your mom' jokes, lots of shenanigans, and a ridiculous amount of gay pining
> 
> disclaimers: first, dipper and mabel are not siblings, for the sake of the plot. second, i have never been to the university of oregon, so my apologies if i'm misrepresenting it. third, the name mermando is ridiculous but i didn't want to use any OCs. finally, robbie is a dick.

**one.**

When Wendy arrives at work five minutes late, the cafe’s stereo is already up and running, playing a Matt Nathanson song at a volume too loud for both six o’clock in the morning and for any Matt Nathanson song in general.

“God, Dipper, you know I hate this cheesy shit,” she groans, taking off her ear-muffed hat and shaking out her hair. “Do we have to listen to your John Mayer station? Really?”

Despite the early hour and the lingering darkness outside, Dipper Pines (Wendy’s manager and, less importantly, best friend) is already up and running, eyes bright and bag-free, apron on and t-shirt cleared of wrinkles. He doesn’t even look up from the pot he’s rinsing out to reply to Wendy. “Hey, as a salesperson, it is my duty to please the consumer. And what the consumers want is this.” Vaguely and absently he gestures upward, toward the speakers.

Pulling her hair back into a lazy ponytail, Wendy rolls her eyes. “Shut up, we both know you love these songs, too.” The other worker mutters something indignantly, but he also blushes, and Wendy grins. “Can’t keep anything from me, Dipper Pines.” When she walks past him, still hard at work getting out that stain, she playfully whacks his back with her work cap. 

A moment later, the bell over the door rings and the cafe’s other morning shift worker walks in, clad in black and looking very much as though he has not yet made peace with the concepts of ‘waking up’ and ‘being a walking, breathing, sentient organism’.

“What is this shit music?” Robbie mutters, shrugging off his jacket and clocking in, movements deliberately harsh and fast--physical manifestations of his horrible, terrible mood. Robbie has always been everything but completely histrionic; he constantly makes a show of his emotions, as though everyone else needs to be aware of just how shitty he’s currently feeling.

Wendy shakes her head. “Right? It’s Dipper’s acoustic station. Again.”

Finally Dipper sets down the mugs he’s moved onto cleaning, to give both of them a committed, full-on glare. “Dude, if you guys want to pick the music, get here on time, instead of fifteen minutes late.”

Robbie flips Dipper off, while Wendy places her chin in her hand, feigning deep thought. “Well, I guess being on time would probably be the responsible, adult thing to do, and I am nineteen years old…just kidding. I don’t give a shit. Also, sleep is killer. Not even worth parting with for the sake of avoiding your DJ sessions.”

Robbie nods, getting himself a shot of the espresso Dipper had prepared earlier. “I’ll drink to that.” 

As Dipper chastises Robbie for the thousandth time about not drinking or eating things meant for the customers, Wendy gets set up in her position at the cash register. Now that her early morning grogginess has started to wear off and she is psychologically capable of conceptualizing things besides her bed, she can appreciate how nice the shop looks right now, before the sun is up--shadows reposing gently on the floor, finishing their rest, and the moon visible through the front window.

This job isn’t so bad, really. It’s right next to campus, and the two guys who own the coffee shop, Stanford and his twin brother Stanley (shorthand, the Stans), are pretty chill as far as bosses go. Neither ever gets worked up over late arrivals to work or a couple broken dishes. Sometimes Stanford can be a tight-ass about keeping track of accounting stuff, sales and tips, or Stanley chides them for negligible errors in baking or drink-making, but generally. They’re all right. 

Wendy likes Dipper and Robbie, too; Robbie can be kind of a dick and Dipper has a penchant for taking his position as manager too seriously, but they’re generally okay guys with good senses of humor.

Anyway. Point is, she could do a lot worse.

-

**two.**

Wendy is lifted out of her thoughts by the sound of the door opening. 

A little surprised, she glances at the clock--6:15. Today is Saturday. Usually on the weekend nobody comes in until 6:30 and even then it’s only an older local or two, reading the paper or watching the sunrise. Students don’t start drifting in until eight or nine (and even those students appear to be dragging themselves in, zombies with no wants or desires but for caffeine.) 

The girl entering the shop right now, however, is the absolute antithesis of this typical Saturday customer. Dressed in rainbow leggings and one of those cats in space t-shirts, she seems as happy right now as she would be in the greatest moment of her life. She practically bounces through the door, walking on the balls of her sneakered feet, and she’s even dancing a little, moving in time to whatever song she’s listening to in those giant old-fashioned headphones. 

Wendy can’t help but smile, internally. She’s always liked when people are totally comfortable with who they are. 

A friendly expression on her face, Wendy delivers the usual spiel: “Good [morning/afternoon], our specials today are [drink] and [baked good], what can I get for you?, we can do decaf or skim milk, etc.” 

(If it’s with a little more warmth than usual, well, it’s just because Wendy’s in a good mood this morning.)

The other girl moves her gaze to look at Wendy, and wow, her eyes are fucking blue. Like really blue. Like sky blue, but not in a cliche way because they are kind of actually sort of as blue as the sky.

“Wow, um, okay,” she begins. “I probably really should order off this fancy organic coffees menu, because protect the animals and the earth and all that stuff, and I really do love animals so I’ll feel guilty if I get something that isn’t eco-friendly, but actually I don’t care at all, I’m fine, please just give me the sugariest, milkiest, whipcreamiest coffee thing you have.”

It comes out as one long, jumbled, stream-of-consciousness sentence, and Wendy laughs. “Don’t forget to breathe, okay? Pauses between words are a thing now.”

The blue-eyed girl giggles. “Right? My friends are always reminding me to slow down. I guess it’s not really my style though.”

“I see.” Wendy finishes ringing up the girl’s order (a caramel cream latte, selected by Wendy) and gives her change for a five. “Well, live fast die young, right?”

(The girl laughs, and it’s a real full laugh, not something soft or delicate or fragile. It’s a pretty good laugh, Wendy thinks.)

“Not too young, though,” the blue-eyed girl replies. “Maybe at, like, seventy-five? With grandchildren and a swing on the front porch and two aging black cats and a real sense of fulfillment.”

“Nice,” Wendy says, grinning. “Although, not the cats. I’ve always been more of a dog person myself.”

“What? No freakin’ way!” the girl exclaims, a little too loudly. 

(In her peripheral, Wendy sees Robbie roll his eyes, and she kicks his shin under the counter.) 

The seems personally affronted. “Like, I have nothing against dogs, but cats are so much better. They’ve got personality, and they’re feistier, and they’re strong. Independent.”

Wendy shrugs. “I like the passion, but you’re not gonna change my mind. Dogs are just.. I don’t know. Something about the whole loyalty and unconditional love thing really gets to me.”

The long-haired customer nods, leaning against the corner. “Yeah, I get that.” Wendy notices, stupidly and pointlessly, that the other girl’s hand is up on the table, and it’s kind of close to hers. Anyway

“What are you listening to, by the way?” Wendy asks.

“Oh, it’s not music,” the girl says. “It’s Satanic chanting, and the dance I was doing earlier is part of a ritual I perform to please my dark lord after burying the corpses of sacrificed children.”

Even Robbie looks interested at this point. The girl’s face is deathly serious, and for a moment Wendy isn’t sure whether she’s joking.

The dilemma is quickly cleared up, however.

“Jeez Louise, I’m just joking,” she says. “My name is literally Mabel. Mabel! Nobody with that name could be fated to become anything remotely related to blood, or Satan, or the murder of innocents. I was listening to Elvis.”

Robbie snorts audibly in the background, but Mabel ignores him, either because she’s oblivious or because she doesn’t care. The latter is more likely, Wendy thinks. “It gets me pumped, for school stuff, you know? Gotta be ready to flipping destroy my research paper.”

“I don’t know, actually. Not really into that whole ‘trying in school’ thing. I’ve never done homework on a Saturday, ever.” Wendy flashes the girl a thumbs-up. “You do you, though.”

Finished making the latte, Dipper sets it out on the table. “There you go. Sugary, packed with unnecessary calories, and made by the best.” He points toward himself with both thumbs, and Wendy wishes he was joking but he’s really not.

“Wonderful,” Mabel says, grabbing the drink along with a cover and several sugar packets. Dipper and Wendy both give her a look; to which she replies, “Oh, no, these aren’t for the coffee. A few for the road, you know?”

Stuffing the sugar into her backpack, she gives Wendy and Dipper a quick wave before bouncing towards the door. “Gotta run, bros. But thanks for the coffee.”

Wendy watches Mabel as she leaves, noticing (just casually, of course) the way Mabel’s long brown hair reflects the yellow-orange light of the sunrise in a way that’s really pretty nice.

Once she’s gone, Wendy closes the cash register and leans against the counter, angled towards Dipper and Robbie. “You guys know that girl?”

Robbie immediately shakes his head, sticks his tongue out, and makes a ‘blech’ noise. “No, and thank God,” he says, his nose scrunched up. “I’ve never seen so much enthusiasm for life in one person. I hate it.”

Wendy laughs and lightly punches his shoulder. “Whatever. You hate, like, everything anyway.”

As Dipper finishes a latte for one of the other customers, he says, “I know her, actually. We have a lit class together.” He sets the drink onto the pick-up counter and announces its completion. “She’s not brilliant or anything, but she cares a lot. Always volunteering to read or asking questions.”

Wendy can definitely picture it: Mabel seated at the very front of the classroom, constantly on the edge of her seat and with her hand raised nearly to the ceiling. Hair frizzing, bracelets jangling on her wrist, trying desperately to get her professor’s attention.  
For some reason, the thought almost makes her smile.

Dipper’s voice pulls her out of her thoughts. “Why do you ask? You seen her before?”

Robbie suddenly turns to look at Wendy, a slightly horrified look in his eyes. “God, you’re not into her, are you? Please don’t tell me you’re suddenly chasing after straight girls who wear raspberry lipgloss and listen to One Direction.” 

Wendy rolls her eyes. “Shut up, no, I just thought she seemed sort of interesting, you know?” She pauses, before adding, “Also, you don’t know she’s straight. Just because she has long hair and painted nails doesn’t mean--”

“So you do like her.” Robbie puts up his hands and turns away from Wendy, as though surrendering to the chaos of the universe and to Wendy’s complete and total stupidity. “I’m done here. Robbie out.”

Wendy reaches into nearby bowl of mints and pitches a handful in Robbie’s direction (pretty good throws, too--right in the shoulder.) At first he scowls, moves to wipe off his t-shirt as thought mints leave a stain, but then Dipper grabs some mints of his own and comes up behind Robbie.

“Here,” Dipper says, giving Robbie a handful of the small (yet lethal) weapons. “Alliance. Let’s go.”

And so a fight ensues, to the sound of a Jack Johnson song.

(Also to Dipper saying, “Actually, though, guys, we’re gonna need to pick this up. For real.”)

-

**three.**

The next morning, Wendy gets to work early.

Well, early by her standards. Not quite as late as usual.

Feigning total shock, Dipper puts his hands on the sides of his face and makes an ‘o’ with his mouth. “Could it be?” he asks, looking at the clock. “Wendy Corduroy is no more than thirty seconds late?”

Rolling her eyes, Wendy combs her hair with her fingers and carefully puts on her cap. “You’re an ass. Also, since I’m on time, I get to choose the station.”

Dipper frowns. “What? No way. You’re still late.” 

But Wendy’s already on the computer at the back of the work unit, picking out a Pandora station. A HAIM song starts playing and she grins. “So much better than that slow-ass acoustic stuff.”

Groaning, Dipper shoves a few dirty mugs Wendy’s way. “Rinse these.” Sighing she complies. 

“This band isn’t even that good,” Dipper says, in that gravelly voice he takes on when he’s irritated.

Moving over to the sink, Wendy hipchecks the other worker and haphazardly sticks the cups under the faucet. “As if your music taste is so great. Please, we all know you have a thing for disco and terrible 70s pop music.”

“You need to actually wash the dirty dishes,” Dipper half-growls, pushing her out of the way. He begins scrubbing so furiously that Wendy can’t help but chuckle. “Also,” Dipper adds, still in that low gravelly voice, “Your mom has a thing for disco.”

A silent moment passes before both of them burst out laughing. Wendy grabs the head of the faucet and turns it, spraying water all over Dipper’s t-shirt. He retaliates by reaching for a handful of coffee beans and tossing them right towards Wendy’s face. Another full-on battle has ensued by the time Robbie walks on.

“Jesus, what the hell, I thought both of you were gay,” he says, glaring at the pair. “You’re, like, all over each other right now. Stop.”

Wendy responds simply by flipping the dark-haired boy off. Dipper, however, makes a face and steps away from Wendy. “Ew, no way.”

Raising her eyebrows, Wendy says, “Wow. Good to know I’m so completely repulsive.”

“Hey, it’s not personal. It’s just the whole 'female' thing.”

Robbie collapses into the chair by the espresso machine and puts his head in his hands. “Ugh, fine, whatever. Gay.” He puts his head in his hands. “Please, just shut up. I need to take a quick nap.”

While Dipper busies himself with preventing Robbie’s fall into the inescapable abyss of sleep, Wendy opens Angry Birds on her phone and settles into her place behind the register. 

The sun is just starting to rise.

-

**four.**

Mabel shows up around 8:30.

Like yesterday, she’s bursting with energy and life, and also like yesterday, she’s clad in clothing that could more accurately be described as a costume than an outfit (a flowery green dress, for the record, and a denim vest covered in buttons and stickers. Not like Wendy cares that much, though.) 

“Already a regular, huh?” Wendy jokes, grinning. 

“Um, yeah, actually,” Mabel replies as she leans against the counter and studies the menu behind the counter. Both her wrists are covered with bracelets--silver and gold charm chains, colored bands from various charities, homemade stringy things. “Your dudes here make the best freakin’ lattes on campus.”

Wendy can’t help but snicker at the ‘your’ in ‘your dudes’. 

“Yeah, my dudes,” she laughs. “God knows they’re not good for anything but pouring milk and heating it up.”

Behind her, Dipper makes one of those disgruntled noises that mean his pride has been damaged. “Um, I’m just gonna slip in here and mention that this dude is pretty much her boss, and he will get her fired if she doesn’t shut up.” He reaches over Wendy to grab a couple stirring sticks. Finally looking over at Mabel he adds, in a monotone, “Also: hi, good morning, etc, I guess. Try our special, the tuxedo mocha.”

Wendy shoves him to the side. “See? Absolutely terrible with customers. Socially inept.”

Mabel lets out a short laugh. “Wait though, actually, what is a tuxedo mocha? Is that what it sounds like, white and dark chocolate combined? If so, please give me one. Please.”

“All right,” Wendy replies, grinning and ringing up the order. “Congrats, Dipper, your first sale literally ever.”

From behind the counter, Dipper bows. “Gosh, so many people to thank. Definitely not Wendy, though.” Mabel giggles, and Dipper gets to work scrubbing an old stain.

The restaurant is empty, so Wendy lets herself drift away from the register for a bit. Mabel takes a seat at the counter, next to the pick-up station, and immediately begins drumming her fingers on the table.

“So, Mabel, what do you do?” Dipper asks, almost finished with stain elimination. After he’s satisfied with his work, he tucks the rag into his apron and gets to work on the mocha order.

“Okay, well, let’s see,” Mabel replies, putting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. As she lists off activities, she counts along on her fingers. “On Mondays and Wednesdays, yoga and flute practice. On Thursdays, meetings with the feminist action coalition. On Saturday mornings, puppet shows and picture books reading slams at the library. Saturday afternoons I help out at the kids’ hospital on sixth, and on Sunday I sing in the choir at that nondenominational church a few blocks off campus.”

“Wow, um...wow,” Dipper says, running a hand through his hair. “That’s actually a pretty impressive resume. But, ah, I just meant what you do major-wise.”

Mabel grins. “I’m a double major, actually. Photography and developmental psych.”

“Solid. And you’re a flute, huh? I’m an oboist myself. Currently studying some classical stuff. Who’s your instructor?”

Wendy chuckles a little before tuning out the conversation while it shifts toward teachers and students and instruments she’s never heard of. She busies herself with checking her texts for a while, but out of the corner of her eye she watches Mabel as the younger girl chats with Dipper; Wendy can’t help it, really. Something about Mabel is almost magnetic. The hand motions she makes when she’s talking, the irreverent mess of bobby pins in her chaotic updo, the blueness of her eyes and near-constant smile--her enthusiasm, her quirky passion, draws you in. Even against your will.

Dipper flicks Wendy’s shoulder. “Hey, I’m gonna run back to storage and get a few things, all right?” 

“Peace out,” Wendy replies, flashing him the corresponding hand sign. Robbie’s fallen asleep in the back chair during this post-breakfast, pre-lunch lull, so Wendy and Mabel are basically alone.

It doesn’t take Mabel long to break the silence, of course.

“That other guy is pretty cool. Kind of nerdy, but it’s in a good way you know, and he’s pretty cute, too. What’s up with his name, though? Dipper?”

It takes Wendy a few moments to process the ‘he’s pretty cute’. She convinces herself it’s just because Dipper is like a brother to her, and nobody wants to hear their brother get called cute. 

When she’s recovered, Wendy replies, “It’s just a nickname, and it originated how most do. Because of a bizarre and unnatural constellation-shaped birthmark on the forehead.

Mabel giggles and takes a sip from her mug. There’s a little whipcream left on her mouth afterward, and Wendy almost wants to reach over and wipe it off, but um, no. Weird.

She needs to distract herself. “So, photography, huh? You into journalism?”

“Blech, no, boring,” Mabel replies, making a face. “I mean, I love taking pictures of people and places and things--”

“So basically, everything.”

“--But not in a journalist way. I think of it as, like, art. Every single human is interesting and fascinating and beautiful, and I like that there’s a way to capture forever and ever the things they do and the stuff they make and the places they go.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a camera, and before Wendy even has a moment to react she’s snapping a picture.

“Bam,” Mabel says, setting the camera on the table. “Moment captured.”

“Wonderful. I can now exist eternally in the SD card of your camera. I will live on even after I’ve died.”

“Shush,” Mabel laughs, sticking her tongue out at Wendy. “But, no. Usually I ask for permission first, and then I use the photos. On my blog, for the lit magazine, for class. I connect with the masses.”

She takes another drink of her coffee. Again, she gets whipcream all over her face. 

“Enough about me, though. I’m sick of it. To quote myself from like two seconds ago, everyone is interesting. What’s your story, Wendy? What do you do?”

“Your mom.”

Mabel snickers but quickly sobers up. “Seriously,” she says, leaning closer. (Wendy’s breath stops for a moment, but she chalks it up to her fall allergies.) “Start easy. What’s your major?”

“Undeclared and not soon to be in any other state.”

“Last name?”

“Corduroy. I’m being honest, I swear.”

“Hobbies? Favorite music? Thoughts on global warming?”

“TV, video games, running, doing nothing. Alternative and classic rock. No comment, because I don’t care.”

“Hold up, you like running? What the heck, nobody likes running. Also, it’s literally the opposite of doing nothing. It’s the worst thing and it makes you feel like you want to die.”

Wendy laughs and shrugs. “I dunno, I did track in high school and I was pretty good. I did cross country, too, and basketball.”

Mabel shakes her head. “People who like sports, I don’t get it. But, whatever. I respect it. I respect all interests. To a point, obviously, but. Yeah.”

Just then, another customer walks in, and Wendy groans. “Ugh, just a second.” She gets the customer’s order and then kicks Robbie awake. “Hey, dildo, you’re up. Regular latte. Goooo.”

“Make the fucking latte yourself,” he says, swatting at her arms. “You’re capable. Goodbye.”

“No.” Wendy tugs at his arms and pulls him up. “I’m cashier this shift. You’re barista. And I don’t believe in doing extra work, you know that.”

Robbie rolls his eyes melodramatically and groans. “Shithead.” Begrudgingly, though, he begins to make the drink.

Wendy shakes her head and walks back over to Mabel. “Anyway. Where were we?”

“I have to go, actually. Choir in ten minutes.” For a moment, Wendy is a little disappointed, and her face falls, but she pushes the feeling aside. “Hey, but,” Mabel continues, “I’m doing a project in my photography class where we do profiles of kids on campus, and I need a few more people. And you’re interesting, and pretty, and you’d be a great subject probably.”

Wendy can’t help but blush at the compliment. It’s nice to be called pretty, by anyone (well, especially by a cute girl with a heart-shaped face and eyes like the ocean. But.) “All right, sure, I’m down. I’m busy tomorrow, but I get off work at eleven o’clock on Wednesday morning.” Twelve, actually, but she’ll get out of that.

“Sweet, awesome, I’m free then. Prepare for a life-changing freaking experience,” Mabel says, standing up and adjusting a heart-shaped pin on her vest. “See you later, dog.”

Bemused, Wendy gives a half-smile and waves goodbye. Once Mabel’s gone, she moves back over to the cash register.

Robbie comes up to stand beside her. “Dude, stop smiling, you look insane.”

Wendy hadn’t even realized that she’d been grinning since Mabel left, and she quickly stops. “Whatever. Go text Tambry or something. I’m sure she misses your sexts and grainy bathroom nudes.”

“Suck my ass.”

The door opens and a group of five walks in, loud kids with iPhones and aggressively shiny hair. Both Wendy and Robbie sigh before Robbie goes back toward the drink machines. Wendy straightens up and puts on the sunniest face she can.

Quickly, though, Robbie leans in to whisper, “Also, my nudes are not grainy. I know how to work with lighting and filters, shithead.”

Wendy shakes her head and fakes a retching noise, before greeting the next customer.

-

**five.**

Later that night, Tambry is out with Robbie, and Wendy’s got their dorm to herself.

Scattered around her--on the desk, on the ground, in every nook and cranny of the room--are books and papers. And since Wendy has yet to choose a major, and also since she makes approximately one percent of an effort to stay organized, there’s no consistency in the mess at all; her copy of Jane Eyre is covered in lab notes from bio, her calculus textbook is atop scribbles from a philosophy lecture. 

As Wendy surveys the scene, she tries to figure out how much homework she needs to finish for tomorrow. Concluding that, yeah, it’s a lot, she makes the responsible, ideal decision: put it all off and go harass Dipper and his roommate.

Grabbing the key Dipper gave her for his apartment, Wendy slips on her jacket and heads to the other side of campus. Of course Dipper and his roommate live on the opposite side of her dorm. Of course. 

She’s trekked this journey maybe four, five hundred times since her second year started at the University of Oregon. And almost every time she’s taken it was for the exact same purpose as right now: procrastinating. For Wendy, procrastination is an artform, really: she’s a little lazy by disposition, sure, but she also likes the idea of being known as somebody who procrastinates. She wants to come off as easygoing, somebody who blows things off because she can and doesn’t worry too much about it.

Fifteen minutes or so later, she arrives at the entrance to her friend’s room. After quickly and haphazardly straightening out her shirt collar, she opens the door without even bothering to knock and allows her presence to engulf the entirety of the small three-room apartment.

“Hey dudes,” she calls, dropping her jacket on the floor and making her way to the fridge to grab a soda. “Guess who?”

“Ugh, God, can’t you call before coming over here?” Dipper asks as Wendy opens the door to their living room. “You know I hate when you just show up. There’s stuff everywhere, and I--”

“Wendy!” a voice suddenly calls from behind the door to the bathroom.

Literally running into the living room, Dipper’s roommate, Soos, scoops Wendy up into a hug.

“Hey,” she says, smiling but also not because her face is squished against the fabric of Soos’ t-shirt. She twists her neck around so she can breathe, and says, “You did wash your hands, right?” It’s mostly a joke.

Soos responds by giving her an affectionate noogie (nobody but him is capable of making a noogie so gentle), and moving Wendy’s hat from her head to his own. “So, what’s going down? Video game night? Pizza and boardgames? Wait, no, bad horror movie marathon.”

Wendy reaches for her hat. “As much as I love rewatching Monster Dog, I’m in the mood for Mario Kart. I want to completely trash my brain.”

“Fuck yeah!” Soos gives her a high five, and they settle onto the couch, each plopping down on the opposite side of Dipper. The curly-haired boy groans from the middle of the sandwich.

“You know, video games actually improve spatial reasoning, and they enable you to practice coming up with creative solutions to difficult problems in a safe environment, and--”

“Shhhh,” Wendy says, covering his mouth with her hand. Soos goes to set up the game. “I don’t care.”

Dipper starts licking her palm, and she just laughs. “Dude, don’t even try. I grew up with brothers.”

“I grew up with your butt,” Soos says, from over by the tv. 

Finally releasing Dipper, who’s really just so pathetically weak, Wendy gives Soos an air high-five. “You’re on fire tonight.”

Dipper shakes his head, feigning annoyance, but Wendy can tell he’s working really hard not to smile, and he doesn’t hesitate to set down his book and grab a remote instead.

Even if he’s a pain in the ass, Wendy can’t help but admit that he really isn’t too bad of a best friend.

-

**six.**

Later that night--after several hours of needlessly vicious competition, throw pillow fights, and post-loss delivery of death threats--Wendy, Dipper, and Soos are hanging out together in the kitchen, seated at the island counter and eating ice cream right out of several containers.

“So,” Wendy says between bites of moose tracks. “How are things with, Melody, Soos?” Melody is Soos’ long-distance girlfriend from a couple states away. He met her during the summer between his freshman and sophomore years at the university, and they’d gotten along so well that they still skype every night and consider themselves a couple.

“Awesome, per usual,” Soos replies, ice cream all over his face. “She’s killing it in her pre-med program stuff. What about you? Found any special lady yet?”

Wendy shrugs. “Nah, not really. Nobody more than one-night-stand material.

Dipper interrupts. “What about that girl from work? Mabel or whatever. She seems cool.”

Soos raises his eyebrows. “Ooh, who’s Mabel?”

“She’s this sort of weird girl who’s been in the shop a few times,” Dipper says. “She’s nice, though, and funny. And Wendy’s got, like, a huge thing or whatever with her.”

Wendy straightens up out of her slouch, indignantly scrunching her eyebrows together. “What? No I don’t. I’ve literally known her for two days.” 

Playfully tossing a Dorito in Wendy’s direction, Dipper rolls his eyes. “Um, you totally do. Even I picked up on it this morning. And we both know my emotional intelligence is just barely over zero. Also, aren’t you going out with her tomorrow?”

“I didn’t say ‘going out,’ I said ‘working on a project.’ ” Usually Wendy isn’t the type to get worked up over petty things like being pestered about who she likes and who she doesn’t, but she finds herself getting a little defensive. “And you’re the worst at picking up social cues, you literally don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Soos says gently, from his corner of the table, “you are turning kind of red, bro. ”

“Yeah, because I’m kind of annoyed, okay? I can have female friends who are just friends.”

Dipper sighs and puts up his hands. “Fine, okay, sorry.”

“Sorry, dude.” Soos gives her a little half-hug. Wendy grins. Soos is kind of like a human teddy bear, she thinks.

“Hey, it’s fine, I promise,” she says. “I have to get going, anyway. I’ve done zero percent of my homework.”

Ignoring Dipper cries of ‘wait, you haven’t done your homework?!?’ and ‘Wendy, what the hell, it’s Sunday night!’, she throws her spoon toward the sink across the room. It lands right on target. “Bam, slam dunk.”

She puts her coat and scarf on and opens the door to leave.

“Oh, hey, before I forget--Tammy and I are going to this party tomorrow,” Wendy says, poking her head back inside. “Alcohol, huge fucking house, all that rad stuff. I wouldn’t mind having somebody to hang with once Tambry inevitably ditches me to dry hump Robbie in somebody else’s bed.”

Dipper sighs. “Okay, first of all, gross. Second, you’re letting a draft in, close the door.” (Briefly Wendy contemplates opening the door even further, but damn it’s cold outside, so she gives in to Dipper’s request.) “Third, whose party? Soos and I don’t do frat-bro type things.”

Stepping back inside and leaning against the closed door, Wendy gives Dipper her best ‘who the hell do you think I am’ glare. “Neither do I, shithead. Me? Frat boys? Are you serious?” Dipper can’t help but nod in resigned agreement. “And I’m not totally sure. Some super-smart-super-rich kid named Bill. Tambry knows him through mutual friends, and apparently he throws incredible parties.”

“Count me in,” Soos says. “I’ve got some new dance moves that I’ve wanted to show off for some time anyway.” 

Wendy grins. “You’re an incredible human being and my hero, Soos.”

Dipper groans. “Ugh, I guess I’ll come. Only for the free alcohol, though. Also to make sure that Soos does not do a single one of these ‘new moves’ he’s talking about. I’ve seen them. They are...no. Just. No.”

“Fuck yeah,” Wendy says, opening the door again. “I’ll give you the details at work tomorrow. Peace out, shalom, love you guys, adios etc.”

She closes the door, wraps herself deep in her coat, and prepares to head home in the dark.

-

**seven.**

The next morning Wendy is at work right on time. For some reason, when she woke up today, the prospect of coming in to work seemed slightly less hellish than usual.

(If she’s maybe kind of hoping that a certain female customer with dimples and bright eyes will come in today, she doesn’t say anything, to herself or to anyone else.)

“Holy motherfuck, you’re on time,” Dipper exclaims as she comes in, voice falsely and patronizingly enthused. “Literally right on time. Not a single second late. Six AM sharp. My God, this is, truly, a historic day.”

“Wow, Dipper, these jokes just get funnier everyday,” Wendy deadpans, putting on her apron after clocking in. 

“Yes, I know, thank you,” he replies. “Also, I figured we could compromise on the music today and listen to the Beatles station, capisce? Robbie likes it, too, so everyone’s happy.”

Wendy nods. “All right, I can dig it.” She puts on her work cap and settles in at the cash register. 

The first few hours are pretty busy. Since it’s Monday, students and professors enter and exit in a constant flow, unable to face the day without caffeine and sugar. 

It’s around ten that Mabel shows up, wearing another wicked-bright smile and another colorful, flamboyant outfit. But, this time, she isn’t alone. 

The boy next to her is tall and thin, with dark eyes and dark hair and a stupidly chiseled jawline. He’s got a gentle smile, with clean white teeth, and his laugh is low and sweet. With his arm around Mabel, he walks up to the counter, and Mabel grins at Wendy.

“Hey, Wendy,” she says. “This is my some current other half, Mermando. I thought I’d bring him by to try my new favorite coffee shop on campus.”

Wendy tries to laugh but for some reason finds it sort of difficult. There’s something lodged in her throat and she feels kind of like throwing up. “Nice. Um, anyway, our special today is the vanilla latte. ”

Mabel looks at her with narrowed eyes. “Are you okay? You seem a little out of it.”

Wendy presses her lips together and shakes her head, recovering from her stupor. “I’m fine, just a little tired.” The boy with Mabel proceeds to order their drinks, and he’s charming and polite and Wendy is happy that Mabel’s found somebody great. Really.

“Hey, we’re still on for tomorrow, right? The portrait thing?” Mabel asks, eyes still a little concerned.

“Yeah, sure,” Wendy says, ringing up their drinks. 

“I did a portrait of this guy here last week. It was all right, although he’s less of a natural at posing than you’d expect. He kept slouching or blinking or something else.” She giggles. “Anyway, it was an enriching university experience, right, babe?”

The taller boy nods. “Of course. Mabel’s great at what she does,” he says, looking at Wendy.

Wendy nods. “Yeah, I’m sure. She sure as hell is enthusiastic about it.”

Mermando laughs. “Uh huh. Well, there’s a line starting, so we’ll get out of your hair,” he says. Mabel smiles, gives Wendy a wave, and she and the boy move towards the pick-up counter.

Once Mabel is out of earshot, Robbie leans over toward Wendy from his place at the espresso machine. “Told you she was straight,” he says.

“Shut up,” Wendy replies. Her heart’s not really in it, though.

(For now, her heart has kind of left the building.)


End file.
